


Firm as a Habit

by tocourtdisaster



Series: One near perfect thing [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Established Relationship, F/M, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tocourtdisaster/pseuds/tocourtdisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sibling relationships are always complicated, especially when those siblings are Holmeses, and John just wants Sherlock to be all right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firm as a Habit

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very wordy and self-indulgent story and nothing much happens in it. You have been warned. ;) Title comes from a line in "Homeward These Shoes" by Iron & Wine.
> 
> This story does mention eating disorders, but it's not what the story is about, which is why I didn't tag it as such. If you feel like you're unable to read this story because of that, then please don't. Thank you.

John only realizes he's fallen asleep in his chair when he's woken by the weight of Sherlock's head against his knee. He reaches down and sets his hand against the top of her head; her hair is cold and wet, so John's worries about her just wandering the streets in the rain since she stormed out of the hospital this afternoon seem to have been well-founded. He runs his hand once down the back of her head, feels her minute shivers once he reaches her neck.

"Come on, let's get you off the floor and out of these wet clothes before you catch your death," he tells her, displacing her head from his knee when he stands. He grabs her gently underneath her arms and helps pull her to her feet. Sherlock must've kicked off her shoes at some point despite the fact that she's still wearing her dripping coat; John's finally gotten used to needing to look up to meet her eye, but they're of a height right now.

"You of all people should be aware of the fallacies in that statement," Sherlock says, but it's a pale imitation of her normal cutting tone. She sounds tired, not that John can blame her.

John looks at her and he sees wet, tangled hair, smudges in her minimal-to-begin-with make-up, red eyes, and skin even paler than normal. He hears the beginnings of a cold in her slightly ragged breathing, which was there this morning and has been helped along by her time spent out in the rain.

He sees a woman who is worried and out of her depth and he wonders, once again, about her self-ascribed label of sociopath and her brother's title of arch-nemesis. Neither seem quite as true now as they did even a day ago.

"I'll run you a bath," John says instead of the thousand and one things he wants to say. He wants to ask her why, when she clearly feels emotions just as deeply as most everyone else, she clings to the notion that she's an unfeeling machine. He wants ask her where she was all afternoon and why it looks like she took a dip in the Thames. He wants to reassure her that everything will be okay, but he knows from past experience that will only lead her to shut him out completely.

So he keeps his mouth shut and peels her out of her coat and hangs it on the hook on the back of the door to dry before leading the way to the bathroom. Sherlock following his lead docilely is something he used to think he'd like, but now that it's happening, he realizes that Sherlock is a woman who was never meant to be docile; it's disconcerting to see her like this. 

The old pipes groan when John starts the water running, but it heats quickly enough without any other problems. He lays a towel out on the radiator while Sherlock strips out her sodden suit, leaving it in a pile on the floor next to the toilet. He runs his eyes down her body, making sure that she's actually in one piece, but doesn't let his gaze linger; it's not about sex, not right now, not that he wants it to be. He just wants to take care of her.

Sherlock steps into the tub before it's even half-full and lets out a sigh once she's settled, knees bent, feet flat against the porcelain, with her arms wrapped around her shins. She rests her cheek against her upraised knees, eyes closed. There's a strand of wet hair pasted to her forehead, but she doesn't seem to realize it's there. John's fingers itch with the desire to brush it away from her face.

Instead, he picks Sherlock's clothes up off the floor because he doesn't want to deal with her tantrum when they get musty and hangs them over the edge of the hamper to dry. After a slight hesitation, he steps out of the small bathroom to dig up some pyjamas for Sherlock even though it's not even six o'clock yet; he's sure she's rather over the idea of proper clothes for the day. He doesn't linger, knowing Sherlock probably won't notice that the tub is full before it starts to overflow, and is somewhat shocked to hear the flow of water stop while he's still trying to find a clean pair of socks for her.

Despite all indications to the contrary, Sherlock doesn't look like she's moved any since she sat down, though John is happy to note that her skin back to its normal not-alarming shade of paleness and that she's no longer trembling quite so noticeably. John sets the pile of clothing on the closed toilet lid and perches on the edge of the tub. Sherlock still doesn't move, even when John pushes up his sleeves and uses his cupped hands to pour warm water over her back and shoulders.

"Lift your head up a bit," he tells her, voice quiet enough that it doesn't echo off the tile. John grabs Sherlock's bottle of ridiculously expensive and surprisingly fruity-smelling conditioner off the shelf and dumps a decent amount into his palm. He works it through Sherlock's hair, carefully teasing out the knots. He keeps running his fingers through her hair even after there are no more tangles, watching as Sherlock relaxes in degrees.

He's not sure how long they sit there, but it's Sherlock who stirs first, grabbing the chain on the tubstopper between her toes and pulling. "I need to rinse my hair," she says, still sitting as the water drains around her. "Hand me the shower head."

John rinses his hands in the swiftly receding water and stands to pull down the shower head, but he doesn't hand it over. "Let me," he says, and lays his palm against Sherlock's forehead to get her to lean back. He works as quickly as he can, but Sherlock is shivering again by the time he's done.

He leaves the shower head hanging against the edge of the tub and wrings out Sherlock's hair before helping her up and wrapping her in the towel that's been warming on the radiator. She looks less like a drowned rat now, but she's still too quiet. Not that Sherlock's never had quiet phases, but the quality of silence is different now. She's not mulling over a case or sulking over the lack of a case; she's trying not to think about the one thing she can't help but think about and it shows.

"Dry off and get dressed before you catch another chill," John tells her, stepping back to let her out of the tub. He wants to stay and make sure she's really okay, but he knows how much she hates when he hovers, so he says, "I'm going to make you some tea and then you're having something to eat, okay?" He waits for her to nod and then he turns and walks out of the bathroom.

He makes the tea on autopilot, keeping half an ear on Sherlock moving around in the other room. There's some leftover fried rice in the fridge that he sticks in the microwave and he's staring at the steeping tea and thinking about the merits of ordering some spring rolls in when Sherlock steps into the kitchen and right up to his side and into his personal space.

She's plaited her hair and the end of the braid is hanging over her left shoulder, leaving a damp spot on John's brown cardigan that she's wearing in place of one of her dressing gowns overtop her pyjamas. She's slight enough that the cardigan could probably wrap around her body twice, but it's hanging open and when John looks, he can clearly see that she hasn't bothered to put on a bra.

John turns back towards the counter and fishes the tea bags out and doctors Sherlock's cup with milk and more sugar than John thinks is healthy, but that's how she likes it. His own gets just a bit of sugar.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock says, blowing across the top of her mug before taking a sip. John looks at her out of the corner of his eye, notes how hollow her cheeks look in the dim light, but doesn't say anything. When the microwave beeps to let them know the rice is done, neither of them move.

"You need to eat something, Sherlock," he says in the direction of the plates on the shelf in front of him. This is an old and well-worn argument that John knows he'll eventually lose, but he can't help but start it time and time again. He cares too much to just let it go.

"I'll eat when I'm hungry, which is not now," she says flatly. She sounds exhausted and it puts John on edge because Sherlock should never sound like that; even in her darkest moods, he's never heard her sound like this.

John sets his tea down and turns to face Sherlock, who continues to stare straight ahead. "Have you ever noticed," he asks carefully, "that anytime something bad happens that involves Mycroft in any capacity, that you go off food?"

Sherlock just barely flinches and John knows he never would have seen it if he hadn't been giving Sherlock more of his attention than is exactly healthy since the day they met. He wonders if she even realizes that he watches her just as carefully as she watches him.

"I 'go off food' when I am under undue stress, which Mycroft happens to cause," Sherlock snaps, and it's not a real answer, but John knows it's all Sherlock is going to give him right now. She sets her tea down on the edge of the counter and pivots smoothly on her heel and disappears from the kitchen as quickly as she had appeared in it.

The sound of Sherlock's bedroom door slamming echoes through the entire flat.

John finishes his tea and rinses both mugs and leaves them in the sink to wash later. The fried rice goes back into the fridge where it will probably sit until it starts to become aware of its surroundings before it is summarily tossed out while it's still in the planning stages of a coup. John thinks it would be less cruel to throw it out now, before it knows about the sort of life it could be leading, but he has such a hard time wasting food that he might want to eat later.

After he feels like he's wasted a sufficient amount of time wondering about the theoretical feelings of the fried rice, he steps down the hall towards Sherlock's bedroom. He's not trying particularly hard to be quiet; he wants Sherlock to hear him coming, in case she needs just a few more seconds to compose herself.

He doesn't knock because he knows Sherlock will just tell him to go away and the door handle turns smoothly, meaning Sherlock doesn't really want him to stay away. If she didn't want him to come after her, she'd make sure that he couldn't, either by locking the door or disappearing from the flat completely. It's not like she's never run around London in her pyjamas before, though John hopes to never repeat that endeavor, especially in the rain when Sherlock's already courting a chest infection.

Sherlock is in bed, but on top of the blankets, still wrapped in John's cardigan. Her back is to the door, and he can see her shoulders tense when he steps on the loose board next to the bed before he sits gingerly on the edge, legs braced in case she tries to shove him away. After a long moment, he rests his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. She's still tense, but she doesn't shake him off, which he counts as progress.

"He's going to be fine, you know," John eventually says. He doesn't even try to pretend to know the history between Sherlock and her brother, but he knows worry when he sees it and Sherlock's been worried in her own way all day. She may have left the hospital almost as soon as she was allowed to see Mycroft, but she has to know that nothing can keep the man down for long. "I spoke with his doctors and his prognosis is very good."

"Yes, I'm aware," Sherlock states. She doesn't bother to look at John, but she still hasn't shaken off his hand, so he's going to tentatively call this one a win.

"How--" he starts to ask, but stops himself before the question is even fully formed in his head. "His PA texted you." This one isn't a question.

"Ms. Weir has been keeping me apprised of Mycroft's condition," Sherlock confirms.

"Is that her real name?" John asks, intrigued almost against his will. He skims his palm up and down Sherlock's arm and watches the tension slowly bleed out of her shoulders for the second time tonight.

"Doubtful, but it was the name she gave when I first met her and it's as good a name as any to use," Sherlock says with a shrug. It's an odd looking gesture, with Sherlock horizontal and John seeing it from above, and John doesn't bother to hold back the smile it brings.

"At least it's more believable than Anthea," John says and Sherlock snorts out an indelicate laugh and finally looks over her shoulder at John.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, if you're going to hover, could you at least do it while lying down?" she huffs, but John's wise to her by now; she's not nearly as annoyed with him as she'd like for him to believe she is. 

John grabs the quilt that's folded at the end of the bed and drapes it over Sherlock before he settles down behind her, his arm around her waist and his nose pressed into the space behind her ear. Sherlock presses back against him until they're touching in more places than not. "Are you still cold?" he asks, once she's settled.

Sherlock hums out a negative. They're both silent for a long time after that, long enough that John is starting to feel drowsy again, even after his unintentional nap earlier. Not that it's entirely unreasonable considering how early they were woken by Mycroft's PA this morning.

He thinks about her standing in the living room in the half-light of dawn in the city, her normally impeccable suit rumpled, and saying to Sherlock, "He's in surgery. You should be there." He remembers watching Sherlock's face turn to stone, but not before he caught a glimpse of her shattering, and he's glad that Mycroft will be okay because he's not sure he can ever stand to see that look on Sherlock's face again.

He's also glad that they caught Mycroft's would-be assassin at the scene; he knows Sherlock would have gone after him herself and John couldn't stand it if she had someone's blood on her hands. That's John role in their partnership, to save Sherlock, even if it's only from herself.

"Two months before I turned seven, my father left and Mum disappeared into her own head," Sherlock says into the quiet of the room. It's the first time John's ever heard Sherlock mention her father. "Mycroft was away at school at the time, but he took care of me as best he could when he came home for holidays."

John thinks about Sherlock as a little girl and wonders how lonely she must have been, waiting for her brother to come home. He knows from experience that at that age, an older sibling is something of a minor deity and he's sure that Sherlock and Mycroft can't have been that different from most other children that that mindset wouldn't have applied.

"Mycroft was a chubby child and by the time he left for school, he was already preoccupied with his weight," Sherlock continues. "He made sure that I ate regularly, but he hardly ate at all and when he did, it wasn't enough to sustain him for long. It was like that every time he came home. When he was under stress, he'd just stop eating entirely, at least until the last few years or so, when he started doing the opposite."

Sherlock sighs. "I never intentionally modelled my behavior after his, but it happened somewhere along the way and it's a hard habit to break. I've never meant to make you worry."

John doesn't say, "I always worry about you," because they both know it already so it would be a waste of breath to say it now. He doesn't say it's unkind of Sherlock to tease Mycroft about his weight because he knows that that's how she shows her concern for him, in her own way. He doesn't apologize for how her childhood was because she won't accept his sympathy, no matter how well-intentioned.

What he does say is, "Let me know when you're ready for dinner and I'll make pancakes." It's a rather nonsensical response to everything Sherlock's told him, but it seems to be the right one, if Sherlock's surprised laugh is anything to go by.

"Breakfast for dinner, John?" she asks, lifting herself up slightly and twisting to be able to look over her shoulder at him.

"My mum used to make them for me," he says. One day, he'll tell her how his mum made him pancakes when he was home sick from school and how he made her pancakes after dad died and how he and Harry split a stack after Mum's funeral last year and how pancakes never fail to remind him how much his mum loved him. For now, he just says, "It's comfort food, Sherlock. You deserve a little comfort food after today."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but after she drops back down and settles against John's chest, she wraps her hand around the one John has pressed against her stomach. John doesn't know how long they stay like that and he must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing he's really aware of is that Sherlock has turned to face him and that the room is almost completely dark, lit only by the street lights shining through the half-open curtains.

"What time is it?" he asks through a yawn.

"Half two," Sherlock answers without looking away from him, so either she's actually psychic, which he wouldn't put past her, or she hasn't been awake that long, since he knows that's the first thing she does when she wakes up.

"Hungry?"

"Are you offering to make pancakes for me in the middle of the night?" she asks and John knows he's thrown her; she never asks an obvious question unless she's been startled somehow and John's beginning to realize that she's really only startled by him these days. It's a humbling realization.

"Yes," he says simply.

"I...Yes, I'd love some pancakes," she says, and she's got her deduction face on, like she's trying to figure John out, like she's wondering if it would be possible to dissect his brain without causing any permanent harm. John knows it's cracked, but he loves that look more than almost everything else in his life.

"Okay," John says. He pushes himself upright and stretches, feels his shoulder complaining at having been slept on for most of the night. "Would you like me to show you how to make them?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but practically springs from the bed and is out the door before John's even managed to get to his feet.

And he knows that pancakes don't really fix anything and that Mycroft is still in hospital and that Sherlock still doesn't know how to respond to stressful situations in a healthy manner, but when she wraps herself around him and presses her face to his neck, he knows it's at least a start.  



End file.
